These Hands

F C G I wear the customary clothes of my time, D Bb Dm F A# Like Jesus did, with no reason not to die F F7 Bb Facing history, with little to no irony F C Dm Bb Like Im some forgotten southern city, Sherman razed F C Dm Bb Still hid under thick smoke after all these years F F7 Dm These hands, are my fathers hands but smaller Bb Soaked in paint thinner, Dm Until theyre so dry coming together, Gm F They make the sound of resisting each other Gm Bb F Gm F A shrill squeal like two moving rubber, tires touching Gm F Gm F Hide nothing, hide nothing